Some Days
August, 1996.
The Quaffle soared; it sailed a hair out of Fred’s reach and right through one of the goalposts, which had been erected earlier this morning.
“Six-three!” cat-called Ginny triumphantly, soaring overhead. But she was rudely interrupted by a Bludger coming within inches of her. Seconds later, Ron appeared. He swung his club and scored a bit of a clumsy hit on the savage ball.
Harry dodged it with a slight swerve on his broom. His eyes were still seeking out that illusive Snitch — easier said than done against the harsh sunlight, that is.
They’d been at this since lunch, a game of pseudo Quidditch. Consisting of only two Beaters/Keepers (the twins), two chasers (Ron and Ginny), and a Seeker — Harry (of course), the game was quite wonky. They’d had to find a workaround for the small snag of the lack of a second Seeker. Ron had proposed that Harry just swap teams every few rounds, while George had suggested dropping the Snitch from the game altogether and for him to be an extra player on just one of the teams.
They’d ultimately settled on Ginny’s idea, though, that Harry remain Seeker, but switch to whichever team scored a goal last. Harry thought it was brilliant.
Currently, he was on George-Ron’s team.
The country-side air smelled of late-August heat, though the temperature was bearable with the wind raving against the body as Harry and the others soared on their brooms. Below the game sat Hermione, engrossed in a book in a tree’s shade. Just to the right of Harry stood a crooked house of many levels in all of its glory. The Burrow. Life at the Burrow was great. And Harry had missed it with all of his soul. He had missed this. All of this.
Today was a rather typical day. A Sunday, when the twins were off work in their shop and could contribute to a game. But lately, all days felt typical to Harry, often without change and yet each always different. It didn't make the slightest bit of sense, so Harry couldn’t explain it even if he tried. Some days, it felt like the time passed in a breeze, spent outside in a game of quidditch.
Much like now…
“Ron, do you know how to aim or did Auntie Muriel pass down her vision to you!?”
Harry was snapped out of his thoughts. While Ginny and the twins were roaring it up with laughter, Ron was quickly turning a fantastic shade of scarlet that matched his hair almost impeccably.
“Oi! Not my fault it’s so bloody sunny—!”
“—Language, Ronnie-kins!” chided one of the twins, grinning. “Wouldn’t do to let mum hear you using such unfriendly words.”
Ron made a particular hand gesture at them.
…However, some days, it felt like minutes lasted hours and hours days. On such days, Harry avoided any interaction and sought solitude.
Most days passed relatively alright. But then there were some… some nights when Harry felt like he was locked in a suffocating room. Sharing one with Ron with Harry’s nightmares was an experience. Thankfully, that Silentium Locus spell he’d discovered earlier this summer was a very versatile spell, for Harry could cast it over an area around his sleeping mattress, not just the entire room. It was, perhaps, his only salvation now.
It didn’t used to be like this though — before, Harry had had that potion that repelled bad thoughts and memories to the back of the mind, the one Snape had given him. It was supposed to last him until the end of summer, except Harry had doubled-down on it and started drinking it throughout the day, too.
It went without saying that that flask of potion now lay empty.
He knew he shouldn’t have, but he had succumbed to the temptation anyway. Thoughts often plagued him, the same monotonous ones, ever-persisting. They resurged every time he sat down to breakfast, lunch, to dine with the others, or whenever his mind had nothing else to pick at. They resurged every time he was caught laughing or enjoying himself, or merely holding conversation with anyone — in these rare moments, seldom as they came, he was forced to put up a pretense. A mask to mask this constant feeling… this same, dark, oppressing thought that sprouted all other thoughts…
It was the fact that his body was not his own, but a vessel. The fact that every time he ate, that unspeakable thing inside him feasted. That every time he laughed, the monster inside him knew it ; that it could sense it . A shard… A fragment…
His actions could not even be considered his own. Nor were the breaths he drew every second to keep himself alive.
So long as he lived, the fragment lived. Voldemort lived.
He was contaminated.
It was times like this when he wished Snape hadn’t told him anything. Perhaps he would’ve been better off ignorant of the truth.
And as if that wasn’t bad enough, just… everything in general, particularly gatherings like meals, often felt oddly strange to Harry.
The entire Burrow always gathered at the table, three times a day, in convivial conversation over Mrs. Weasley’s scrumptious cooking. Of course, Harry was also always there, but that was contradictory to how he felt. Physically, he was there, but just not… It was difficult to describe.
He felt like an unwanted burden, having nothing rooting him to anyone. A missfit. Hermione had her parents; the Weasleys had one another…
Meanwhile, Sirius was dead and the Dursleys had disowned him. Dumbledore was his legal guardian now, but that was but a formality.
Harry oftentimes caught himself on these mundane thoughts, and even told himself that they were just ridiculous. Even the Weasleys had assured him:
“You no longer have to go back to the Dursleys?” Ron had exclaimed in all his excitement. “That’s brilliant, Harry! You’ll just live with us from now on!”
“Oh, that he will,” Mrs. Weasley had asserted, setting down a large pot of stew on the table. She’d wiped her hands on her apron and walked over to Harry, cupping his face gingerly in her hands. “To do such a thing to such a lovely boy… Those Dursleys are just cruel people. They didn’t deserve you anyway. Well, don’t you worry, dear. We’ll take good care of you.”
Hermione had also piped up. “But that was a very smart move on Dumbledore’s part, Harry. If he’s your official legal guardian, the Ministry will definitely think twice before trying anything. The Death Eaters, too.”
“It’s just a formality though,” Harry had shrugged indifferently.
Those kind words meant the world to Harry, and yet, they just didn’t seem enough, and it felt as if nothing ever would be. He still felt like an outcast, and he hated the feeling — as if he were a piece of kelp, unanchored to anything or anyone — a home or family — and drifting wherever.
Consequently, there were nights where sleep simply eluded him like the plague, or these thoughts roused him from an uneasy sleep. As of yet, he hadn’t woken Ron up with his stirring, but that was due to two factors: one — Harry always made sure to cast Silencio on himself every night before bed; two — Ron slept like a log. It was actually hard to wake him, not the other way around.
So, these nights, when Harry found himself restless, he silently snuck out of the house in nothing but his pajamas and trod his way to that little hill just beyond the wards, situated at the very edge of a small tree growth.
He sat there for however long it took for his trembles and hitched breathing to subside. What was more pathetic was that he sometimes closed his eyes and envisioned the few times Snape had found him during one of his fits and how he’d helped him through his wretched state. It was beyond weird, Harry knew. But strangely enough, those memories, the sound of Snape’s deep, monotonous, smooth voice, paired with his attempts at doing those Occlumency exercises, always sufficed to calm him at least marginally.
And eventually, his trembles subsided.
They always did with the promissory break of dawn. A relief. Some mornings, the tranquil silence of the early morning found the Gryffindor sitting on the small hilltop overlooking the Fields and the crooked house a little later into the morning. It was just slightly beyond the wards’ reach, so Harry assumed it was relatively safe… No one knew, all slumbering still, and they never would… But every time, he was still diligent enough to head back inside before anyone woke and announced him missing.
Though some mornings on that hilltop, Harry couldn't even stand the silence that seemed to amplify his thoughts.
It was really such a hit-or-miss at this point — like a slumbering, temperamental dragon.
Some days, he, Ron, and Hermione endeavored to do their homework, which worked as a swell distraction. It was all involuntary work, of course, as Hermione always pressured them into it, saying, “You will be cramming that essay in five minutes before arriving at Hogwarts, and I doubt Professor McGonagall will appreciate deplorable penmanship”.
Ron half-assed his essays as much as humanly possible, but also not too much, so that it met Hermione’s standards when she proofread it.
Surprisingly, one evening, Hermione had deemed his Charms essay acceptable on her first check, only pointing out a few grammatical mistakes. This was unusual, for it usually took Ron several attempts before Hermione approved of his work. When the girl had handed back his essay, she’d only said, “It’s actually quite well-written, Ron.”
Ron had beamed smugly and shrugged innocently. Later that evening, he’d whispered to Harry, “I’ve learned Hermione’s writing style. She’s more likely to approve of writing that’s similar to her own. Bloody smart, ‘ey?”
Harry never took such days for granted.
Though some days, the relative ‘peace’ was shattered by new issues of the Daily Prophet, delivering more grim news in the headlines of the havoc the Death Eaters continued to wreak, such as stories of disappearances and death. Sometimes, they even knew of the news before it had yet even reached the Daily Prophet, courtesy of Mr. Wealsey and Bill, sometimes Remus Lupin — with whom Harry exchanged scarcely any conversation.
It was not that Remus was withdrawn from or cold-mannered towards him, but rather that Harry felt this constant thick fog between them — his very own fog of guilt over Sirius’ death. He and Remus had yet to bring up the topic, which both seemed to be avoiding.
“There have been another couple of dementor attacks,” the werewolf had announced on a day of visit. “And they’ve found Igor Karkaroff’s body in a shack up north. The Dark Mark had been set over it — well, frankly, I’m surprised he stayed alive for even a year after deserting the Death Eaters; Sirius’ brother, Regulus, only managed a few days as far as I can remember.”
This news had made an uncomfortable pit settle in Harry’s stomach. An unbidden thought of Snape swam to mind — a hypothetical scenario wherein in Karkroff’s stead was the professor’s head, discovered of his double-role and spying. He couldn’t help but wonder about it with dread sometimes, oftentimes an anxious hand squeezing his stomach. It was an unsettling thought that, every day, the man was putting his life at risk, lying and deceiving Voldemort.
He often thought of the professor, of all that had happened in those two torturous weeks, and of what was to come. He wondered if he’d started looking for a potential solution, or even started researching Harry's… problem yet…. He also wondered if there had been another Death Eater meeting, and if Snape was… well, whole . At that unpleasant thought and memory of an unconscious Snape prone on the floor, Harry always swallowed uncomfortably. His only measure of solace was that he hadn't had a vision of any Death Eater activity yet, so it was most likely just his paranoia.
Though it honestly felt like the calm that always came before and after the storm…
But on such thoughts, he knew better than to dwell.
Then there was also Mad-Eye Moody and his weekly dueling lessons.
Special wards had been set up around the Burrow by Dumbledore to conceal underrage magic usage. So, twice a week, Harry and Mad-Eye went out into the orchard and practiced dueling for a few hours.
Things weren't too bad, Harry would say.
Matter of fact, he found it a relief that his magic had more or less normalized. He could perform standard spells alright again. It fluctuated at times, however. Harry felt like his magic was riding some kind of roller coaster — after a particularly nasty nightmare or stress, his magic always visibly regressed, and this, consequently, showed in his dueling performance later on.
Though Mad-Eye never said much on the subject.
“Ay. Need to sleep better, is all, Potter... It’s the wretched heat, that’s what it is… Gotta keep your head sharp. But you’ve got good potential, there, boy. Aspiring Auror indeed.”
He was extremely grateful that Dumbledore hadn’t told the Wealsey’s about his magic’s regression over the summer. Harry preferred that it remained that way. There would only be more questions he would have to prevaricate. It was already enough that Ron and Hermione still sometimes tried to pry answers out of him about what had happened to him over the summer, even with seemingly innocent and nonchalant questions. Even after Harry had told them several times that he wasn't allowed to say.
But despite these occasional snags in his magic, Harry rather enjoyed these one-on-one magic lessons with the retired Auror. Whenever they weren’t dueling, Moody was showing him tricks and tactics, even trying to teach him a few useful spells.
…
Harry and the others continued to play their pseudo Quidditch until sunset, when Mrs. Weasley called dinner. Hours later that same evening, Harry was ruminating on all of this sitting on the windowsill, chin and cheek resting on his knees and vision unfocused. Stars above twinkled brightly… His thumb and index finger were absently twirling his glasses by one of the temples.
They would be off to Hogwarts within a bit over a week; but first, Harry and the Weasleys would go to Diagon Alley to buy supplies and, more excitingly, visit the Weasley twins’ Wizarding Wheezes. Harry had never been. By what little news the Twins had told them (“Wouldn't want to spoil it for you, would we?”), it was clear to anyone that business was booming and that they’d hit the ground running with it.
Harry yawned, stifling it so as not to wake Ron (though he doubted it would be heard over the sound of his snores anyway). His eyes were stinging, yet he had no wish to go to sleep.
Though he knew he had to, lest he wished to be a zombie tomorrow.
Harry glanced at his mattress on the floor, then back up at the clear night sky. His heart nearly skipped a beat when his eyes made out the Sirius constellation. It ached with longing, with that same bitter hollowness...
Indeed, grief still trailed after him, following in his wake like an ever-present shadow that felt like they could unnaturally form even from the small flames burning on candle wicks. Grief… It was a suffocating feeling; a punch in the gut, constricting his chest and knocking the breath out of him every time a reminder sprang to his mind.
Some days were a struggle, some a relief. Some days passed quickly, others stretching on for longer than twenty-four hours.
Harry was eagerly anticipating the return to Hogwarts, perhaps in the hopes of distracting himself with mounds of homework and studying… And perhaps something else he was looking forward to. A familiar face, perhaps to talk to; to discuss the heavy burden that continued to plague him, making his insides and body feel contaminated.
Frankly, that person was the only one he could discuss this problem with.
Had Snape yet found a way to remove Volddemort’s soul from Harry?
Had he abandoned the quest?
Did he ca… did he still care?
These thoughts eventually put Harry into an uneasy sleep.
~***~
A heavy tome fell with a dull thump against the wood. The whole desk trembled. Severus hunched over it on his palms, his fingers curling in, scraping the polished surface.
Nothing .
Nothing in Age of Darkness of the XVI Century or in The Soul Merging of the Great Barnabacus , nor in any of the other tomes Severus had already scrounged through for information. Nothing. A void. Not a single inkling or mention of anything even relatively close to what he was looking for.
It had been nearly a month .
Defeat clashed with frustration. Severus abhorred this feeling of helplessness. Useless. Incompetent. He should have been able to find something by now, yet to no avail…
Every day felt the same to him, the same monotonous, fruitless search for something so unprecedented as this…
Some days passed in the blink of an eye, some stretching on for endless hours.
Some days, Severus didn’t leave his study, finding himself engrossed in discarded tome after discarded tome.
Some days, he brewed Hogwarts Infirmary orders. On other days, he composed and planned DADA lessons, pouring over the Ministry’s curriculum mandates…
Some days were a struggle where he felt like he could pull his own hair out, the wretched state that he felt he was in. No solution — not one — for that soul fragment residing in the boy.
But he adamantly refused to despair, for that was for the weak; he refused to accept that there was no other solution than for the boy to…
But what else was he left to do?
Severus had already tried searching the Malfoy library at the manor, had been through some of the rare texts and tomes that the Dark Lord treasured. It went without saying that he’d already been through the Hogwarts library’s Restricted Section, too, though he hadn’t looked with much hope. After all, what were the chances of him finding something in a school library when there had been nothing even in entire archives of ancient and illegal books on dark magic at Malfoy Manor?
Potter’s case was an even bigger enigma than Severus had imagined it to be going into all this research.
He’d mostly concentrated his search on souls and dark rituals. He’d even researched the bloody dementors, given their soul-sucking capabilities.
Nothing.
You aren’t trying hard enough, swam a voice through his head. Lily’s voice. Severus’ eyes sprang open in startlement.
Failure… Incompetent…Swore to protect…
Those words continued to plague Severus’ mind, day and night, night and day. Often in the form of nightmares. Peaceful sleep came seldom these days, and Severus had had to double down on the potion he’d brewed for Potter during his stay here. He hadn’t had a name for it before, but the potion that repelled unsavory thoughts and memories to the back of one’s mind was now called ‘Celarium Umbras’.
Severus’ mind, consequently, strayed to the bespectacled, green-eyed predicament.
Genuinely, he wondered how he was coping. He wondered if the Celarium Umbras potion he’d given him was proving effective, or if the boy had had any more visions since his departure. He wondered how his magic training was going…
Some days, more often than he would’ve liked to admit, the Slytherin’s mind strayed to the boy, mulling over that strange fortnight they’d spent together.
Some days, it felt like time was escaping him — like morning turned to evening and night compensated for the lost afternoon, dragging on for endless hours. Often, he even anticipated the distinct sharp burn of the Dark Mark, — there hadn’t been one since some few weeks ago. Another should be on the days now…
Each day, he dreaded it. It felt something akin to watching a blade that was promised to fall, his neck placed on the execution bench. His body felt contaminated with the tattoo’s dark presence. As if there was a dirt stain he just couldn’t seem to wash off. This connection to the Dark Lord — a constant reminder.
The fact that he’d chosen such an unchangeable path felt suffocating.
Some days, he felt like he had no purpose. What use was he? A failure, if he was unable to save Potter… Harry… Lily’s son… the boy— whoever the teen was anymore... It was driving him insane. These thoughts, these ruminations, these what-ifs.
On such days, he felt like he was drowning, failing to keep his head above the rising water.
Severus heaved a heavy, tired sigh and rubbed his eyes with his fingers, still leaning on his desk. He’d be if he hadn’t yet exhausted every book he owned on the Dark Arts… Throwing a shrewd glare at the heavy, dark leather-bound tome lying on his study desk (one would have thought the book had committed an unforgivable offense against him), Severus sank into his high-backed chair. It groaned. With a complicated wand gesture and incantation, he summoned a dark-gray journal from one of the drawers. The man pursued its pages, the other hand’s fingers tracing mindlessly over his lower lip in thought.
Soul fragment… Dark Lord… Potter… The Killing Curse… Sacrificial magic…
Mind maps, notes, suggestions and random spurs of epiphanies and ideas were all scrawled in this research journal of his. Some days, he sat here and stared at its scribbled pages, the ink on his quill drying as his eyes searched for something that wasn’t there on the pages. Much like they were now.
But he had to persevere. He had to prevail. There had to be something out there that would solve this predicament. Even if it were some dark ritual or magic, Severus would make do of it. He would research the magic, look for ways to alter it — he only needed something to go off of.
The man suddenly rose and approached the window, curtained but the monotonous neighborhood street outside visible through a small slit.
Hogwarts would be back in session in a few days.
He’d come to the conclusion that he would need to conduct research, possibly even ‘experiments’ on the boy, possibly through means of assigning him ‘detentions’. Such a feat should not prove difficult — it would only benefit Severus’ cover.
Severus felt a heavy weight in his chest, as though one of those oppressing clouds overhead had accumulated in it. This weight was pressing him, urging him to move; to find a breakthrough. To see results, to see that his efforts were not in vain, that Lily’s son would not share the same fate as his mother had — a willing sacrifice.
A sheet of cold caressed itself against his body at the thought.
This year, Sevrrus could tell, would be his last at Hogwarts. He was no deluded fool. Dumbledore had less than a year to live, and when Severus would carry out that deed… Well, it was evident that he would not be returning to teaching Second Years Defensive spells the following September.
A sudden sound— thunder rolling in the distance. A storm was coming. It was only a matter of when it would strike.
One could only estimate such an unpredictable thing…
And the Slytherin knew he had to hurry before it did.
Because time was of the essence.